Page 65 of The Jerk in Apartment 1B

“How do I track my hours?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just get the job done, and if you feel you didn’t get paid enough at the end, we can talk about it.”

“Sounds good.”

“Here’s the key.” I hand it to her. “I have a spare so you can keep that one. Just call if you need anything.”

I leave the storage room and go down to Cole’s apartment. I knock on the door. He answers wearing his favorite black apron. On the front of it is the logo for the hockey team Cole used to play for, the one he thinks he’ll play for again.

“You want a muffin?” he asks. “They’re almost done.”

“I need to talk to you.” I go into his apartment.

He shuts the door. “I know what you’re going to say and—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I storm up to him. “Whatever reason you give me for why you did it isn’t going to make this better. You had no right to offer her that job!”

“I didn’t offer it to her.” He goes around me to the kitchen. “I just mentioned you were looking for someone.”

“And then suggested Trina was that someone.”

“Yeah? So what’s the big deal?” He takes the muffins from the oven and sets the pan on the counter. “You’ve been saying you want to clean out those storage rooms. Now you have someone to do it.” He looks over at me. “Or did you decide not to hire her?”

“I hired her, but only because she said it would keep her mind off her ex. Maybe that’ll be enough to keep her from going back to him.”

“So that’s why you did it,” Cole says, grinning at me. “So she’ll be thinking about you instead of him.”

“No. That is not why I did it.” I walk over to him. “Where is this coming from? Why are you suddenly obsessed with setting me up?”

“I’m not. I just sense something between you two, like chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” I huff. “She hated me when we met. I think part of her still does. I would not call that chemistry.”

“Then call it a feeling. It’s the same feeling I got when you first met—” He stops himself before saying her name.

“Do not talk about her,” I say, my jaw tightening.

“Come on, Scott.” He takes his oven mitt off and plants his hands on the counter. “When is this going to end?”

“When iswhatgoing to end?”

“This stupid rule you have about not talking about her. It made sense right after it happened, but it’s been three years. I should be able to say her name without you looking like you want to kill me.”

Three years?Has it really been that long? I wouldn’t know because I stopped keeping track. When I moved here, I told myself that life didn’t exist. I pretended that guy wasn’t me. And it wasn’t, because I became someone else. Someone who would never be a husband. Never be a father. Those were things I no longer wanted. Instead, I’d focus on my business and helping others achieve their dreams.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Maybe I should be able to talk about her, but I’m not. And as my friend, you should respect that.”

“I can only do that for so long. There comes a point where you need to start living your life again.”

“You think I’m not living my life? I moved to New York. Bought this building. Started a business. If that’s not moving on, I don’t know what is.”

“You weren’t moving on. You were running away. You didn’t want to be near anything that would remind you of her, so you left and moved across the country, as far away as you could.”

“I wasn’t running away,” I snap. “I saw an opportunity and took it.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says sarcastically. “And what about deciding to never be in a relationship again? Is that your idea of moving on?”

“Not everyone needs to be in a relationship. It’s a personal choice. It has nothing to do with moving on.”

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